


tell me that you're not feeling lonely

by longituddeonda witcher (longituddeonda)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Heavy Angst, Insecurity, Jaskier | Dandelion is Bad at Communicating, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, because i have a lot of thoughts about that, brief references to how people fetishize geralt, like very veiled
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longituddeonda/pseuds/longituddeonda%20witcher
Summary: “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”He had to turn around. Had to stare back at the sloping valley. His words rang in his own ears, over and over. They were true. And they were wrong. They were so, so wrong.-------orthe mountain leaves no survivors. jaskier descends full of despair, geralt full of regret. and it takes far too long for them to run into one another again.ON HIATUS
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> after watching season one in a day, pouring through wiedzmin's first two short story collections, and staying up far too late to read through many of the geraskier fics, i decided i needed to do a little fandom switchup and write this. (this fandom is much fun to write for)
> 
> also writing angst is my lifeblood so prepare yourself.

“What you’re missing is still out there. Your legacy. Your destiny. I know it. And you know it.” Borch turned away with that sick grin Geralt would have replaying in his memory for weeks to come. And not just the grin. All of it, actually. Yennefer. Her storming off. What came next. 

It felt like he had been tapped and someone was draining Geralt dry of the adrenaline and potions and whatever else he had coursing through his veins. One second it had all been right there: sword in hand, Yennefer by his side, the thrill of the fight. And the next it was gone.

With nothing left to hold him together, his muscles took the weight of it all. They tensed up to match the frustration building in Geralt’s gut. How could he have _fucked up_ so badly? So quickly?

The mountain sloped down in front of him, cascading forward, too steep and too high for much more than small shrubs to grow. It evened out far below, advancing into the forest that extended past the horizon. Rock tumbling into bush tumbling into nothingness. That was where he needed to be. Needed to find something lurking there. Something. Anything. Whatever creatures were out there wouldn’t last more than a minute in a fight right now, not with everything waiting to erupt from within.

He hadn’t ever thought of a future until these past few years. Life was a monotony of cold nights, a village, a monster, a kill, a small bag of coin to be spent on a warm night. Repeat. And at some point, that had changed.

Maybe it was Renfri that started it, all those years ago with those simple words about the girl in the woods.

Maybe it was that stupid Law of Surprise.

Maybe it was Yennefer, and what he thought might be called love.

Maybe it was just being fucking tired of it all.

But now? Everything he had bet on doing _something_ with his life was lost.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Geralt felt like he was about to cry. And it took every muscle in his body to stop that from happening.

“Phew! What a _day_ ,” said a voice from behind him. Jaskier. Geralt had almost forgotten he was there.

Jaskier and his chipper voice, piping in to try to cheer up just about anyone. Like he always did.

Jaskier.

Fuck.

The fucking _endless_ singing. The smiles. The wedding. The wish. Yennefer. All of it.

“I imagine you’re probably—”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt whipped around, teeth bared and all that pent up energy channeled into rage. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shoveling it?”

If the bard hadn’t gone and tied himself up in Geralt’s life, maybe none of this would have happened.

Maybe he would still be in his cycle of killing and drinking and traveling, not knowing anything more. Not losing anything more.

“Well, that’s not fair.”

“The Child Surprise. The djinn. All of it!” The wind had picked up and it whipped through Geralt’s hair. He was staring right into Jaskier’s eyes as he seethed, but his vision stopped short of the man. “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands.”

He had to turn around. Had to stare back at the sloping valley. His words rang in his own ears, over and over. They were true. And they were wrong. They were so, so wrong.

* * *

It felt like a fucking slap on the face. Not like the punch in the gut he had suffered from Geralt before. Not like a cut from a dagger or sword, an occupational hazard of travelling with the witcher. No. It felt like he had been slapped. Personally. By Geralt himself.

Jaskier was known to cry from time to time. Occasionally in front of an audience. Sometimes just in public. Often in private.

He had cried in front of Geralt too. Plenty of times. But this was different. He could tell. No amount of crying would fix it. So he tried to stiffen his quivering body and looked at Geralt’s back: all he had been left to communicate with.

“Right. Uh...” He wasn’t sure what there was to say. Geralt didn’t just want him gone. He would prefer if Jaskier hadn’t even walked into his life in the first place. And just like that, everything was over. The past decade. And then some. “Right, then. I’ll... I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.”

A lie. There was no chance Jaskier would ever be telling the story of the mountain.

“See you around, Geralt.”

Jaskier swallowed a sob that was threatening to let loose. He took one last look at that white hair, flowing in the wind, rippling around Geralt’s shoulders and sword. He tore his eyes away. There was no use seeing any more of him. It would only serve to cause further pain.

Those first steps were the hardest. The pull back to Geralt was magnetic. In a sense, they were opposing forces, pulled together by something bigger. But each step further away, the energy pushing him back weakened. As it should be.

The trail back to the camp was short, rocky, and narrow. Jaskier had walked it minutes ago, and the return was just as precarious. Each footfall sent a smattering of rocks sliding down the mountainside.

Any other time, Jaskier would have been worried about falling. But his mind was occupied with other thoughts.

Geralt’s eyes. The furrow of his brow. The fury in his shoulders. The way he said _you_ while pointing at Jaskier.

That had been it, hadn’t it? He was used to Geralt saying unkind things about him. It was part of their relationship. But Jaskier knew the tone and had come to understand (perhaps incorrectly) it meant it was all in jest.

Geralt’s _you_ was different this time. It was heavy, dripping with anger and hate.

It left Jaskier shaking as he turned the corner, out of Geralt’s sight.

* * *

The wind was cold. That was new. Geralt hadn’t felt as cold with only the wind to chill his bones since... since he was a child. The sun beat down as it rose further in the sky, and all he could think of was how cold it was.

Jaskier walked away and Geralt raised his gaze from the rocky ground, looking out to the meandering sides of the mountain.

There was a slight shake in his jaw he would never admit to, and a feeling filled his lungs and veins. Even if he tried to describe it, he wouldn’t get too far. It was a feeling so deep and so large that it’s volume seemed to be trying to push out of him. _Witchers don’t have feelings_. Sure. Geralt, more than most, knew that to be false, a rumor started by other witchers. It made it easier to go through training. To go through the trials. To go out into the world. If you could convince yourself you didn’t have feelings, they’d start to disappear. Start to dull.

And this feeling betrayed all of that.

Clouds cast light shadows across the ridges of the slopes, and Geralt stood there as they passed across the mountain. He wasn’t sure how long he stared at those green bushes, descending into a deep furrow in the rocks. Borch was gone, as were the dwarves. He couldn’t sense Yennefer anywhere near.

(He knew she probably took a portal.)

Geralt thought for a moment that Jaskier couldn’t have gotten far before realizing the number of clouds he had seen pass had given Jaskier more than enough time to leave.

And Geralt knew he could have tried to find him. See if he was still at the camp. Or even waiting somewhere. But he didn’t want to.

If he tried to sense Jaskier and couldn’t? Geralt’s heart sunk at the thought of it.

And that was what made Geralt’s eyes flick open wide.

Fuck.

Jaskier.

Jaskier who had followed him to the most dangerous of places and tended to his wounds and took whatever few words he could get from Geralt. Jaskier who had sung. Jaskier who had talked and smiled. Jaskier who had touched him without want. Without need. Jaskier who had looked at him like he was nothing more than a fellow traveller. Not a dangerous mutant. Not a body to be conquered. Not a monster to be feared.

Who looked at him as if he was human.

Geralt turned around.

Maybe a little part of him had been hoping, despite all logic, that Jaskier would be standing on the rock. But he wasn’t.

Geralt’s bard was gone.

Correction.

The bard was gone.

Jaskier was never Geralt’s. 

If anything, Geralt was Jaskier’s.

* * *

The camp was emptier than when he had left it earlier that morning. The dwarves’ things were gone. The cooking supplies that had appeared in time for dinner were gone. Yennefer’s tent was gone too.

And Jaskier tried hard to not think about how Geralt had spent the night there with her.

All that remained was the firepit and the rocks around it in which the dwarves had gathered to listen to Jaskier sing before they retreated to their respective tents.

There were also two bedrolls on the dirt. One was Jaskier’s, which he hadn’t managed to roll out before sleep had pulled him into her depths last night. And the other was Geralt’s, left behind in lieu of the probably positively _splendid_ sleeping arrangements Yennefer had in her _fucking_ tent.

And Jaskier again tried hard not to think about how he hadn’t laid out his own bedroll because he was waiting for Geralt to join him.

He set down his lute, sat down on a flat stone, and tried to let his body catch up to the fatigue that was starting to fill him. It was long overdue after all, held back by futile hopes and adrenaline.

His eyes drifted across the campsite, stopping at that spot on the cliffside where he had sat next to Geralt, talking about foolish things like the future and the coast. Things he knew better than to talk about. 

He blinked back tears and scooped up his belongings, setting out to leave this place far behind. Never returning to this mountain was a step closer to a life he wanted to live. 

Nothing that would remind him of how _stupid_ he had been to spend so many _years_ following a man who wished he hadn’t waltzed into his life.

Maybe there’d be something better ahead. Jaskier tried to smile at the thought of it, but he had seen the continent. And he wasn’t sure there would ever be something as fulfilling as how life had been.

He wasn’t going to take the dwarves’ route on the cliff and he wasn’t sure how long it would take the go unaccompanied down the main route. Jaskier wasn’t used to traveling alone so far from civilization. Soon enough, the rocky steep slopes evened out into rolling grassy hills before the trail descended into the warmer alpine forest. Jaskier’s feet were tired, and his ankles were screaming for him to stop landing so harshly on every root and rock that crossed the path. He took a turn and the land around him seemed to shallow out. He was still at least a day from the base of the mountain. Maybe more if he got lost.

He could hear the distant trickle of a stream and his body was covered in dust and grime from the past days. Even years of travelling with Geralt hadn’t rid Jaskier of his penchant for expensive fabric and warm baths. Maybe stopping wouldn’t be so bad.

As he slipped out of his boots and rolled up the legs of his trousers, Jaskier sunk into the lush undergrowth. For the first time, he noticed how beautiful the forest was. The thousand shades of green and brown, swirling together, creeping up tree trunks, winding around roots. It had been a long time since he gave the forest a long look. Most of the time he was busied by conversation (often one-sided) or was strumming his lute while thinking up lyrics. If he ever had a quiet moment in the woods it was to sleep or to stare at his companion. He was sure that the way he was now glancing around silently got a little closer to how Geralt interacted with the world.

Or maybe Geralt was too busy trying to see if something was about to attack them to appreciate the forest.

Still, it was beautiful. Jaskier had half a mind to write a ballad about the trees. But maybe it would be better suited as a poem, a song about trees didn’t seem to have high prospects for audience reception.

He dipped his feet into the running water, freezing cold but welcome nonetheless. The familiar tingling of sore limbs receiving much-needed rest enveloped Jaskier’s body.

There was one big problem with stopping to rest: suddenly, there was time to think about Geralt.

Even the thought of his name caused Jaskier’s heart to sink into his stomach.

* * *

Heavy footfalls seemed to echo across the dips and rises in the valley that stretched below. At least, that’s what Geralt’s footsteps sounded like, ringing deep in his own ears.

The camp was near, and every bit closer to where he last had a decent conversation with Jaskier seemed to cause his throat to constrict a little bit more.

Geralt wasn’t even sure if he was still mad at Jaskier or not. Part of him wished he had regretted those words the moment they left his mouth. But he didn’t. He didn’t regret them until it was far too late for a simple apology. Nearly twenty years of being annoyed by Jaskier did leave some residual anger. But there was no way to deny how much more he missed the bard when he was gone. How all the annoyances turned into little blessings every time they ran into one another.

He turned the corner into the camp and while it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, Jaskier wasn’t there. And even worse, all of Jaskier’s things were gone too. Geralt’s bedroll sat propped up against a flat rock next to the blackened fire pit, still faintly smoking from the morning. Along with the dwarves’ shelter structure, those two things were the only signs of life.

It meant one thing. Jaskier was gone.

Not just gone the way they parted ways for the winter or for a few months during their travels. No. Jaskier was gone the way a paper is ripped from a book and used for kindling; the page never to be returned, the book impossible to make whole again.

“Fuck.”

There wasn’t anything he could do about Yennefer. She was too powerful, and even an apology would have to be on her own terms. 

But Jaskier?

Geralt had thought it could be salvaged. That maybe his errors could be fixed over time. The sheer amount of Jaskier’s life that they had spent together seemed to have been proof of that. But maybe he was wrong yet again.

As he started to descend the mountain, heading back to the horrid cliffside trail, Geralt’s memory turned against him, replaying everything he had said to Jaskier. Every word he thought had been forgiven. Every moment he thought they were okay. Every day that went by when Geralt thought he had shown the bard how grateful he was for his presence, and Jaskier might not have been on the same page.

Even if (and he hated his head for providing him the thought) Jaskier hadn’t ever forgiven Geralt over the years, he knew his best bet would be to make it to the tavern at the bottom of the mountain as fast as possible. Jaskier always gravitated to taverns. He always said that if there’s a crowd there’s a want for music, and thus, a place for him.

Geralt just needed to make it there in time.

* * *

Finally clean, Jaskier stood up and looked around. Thankfully the trail was right where he left it, and he was able to continue the journey down the mountain, albeit a bit slower than the ascent.

He had hoped the stream would help him clear his mind, but that was, unfortunately, not the case. The dirt washed off and flowed away with the water, leaving Jaskier with the uncomfortable reality of himself and what was.

And his mind kept replaying those words spat with vitriol he didn’t know Geralt even was capable of.

Worse still was the feeling of worthlessness that had sunk in. Geralt had been the only person consistent in his life that seemed to have truly tolerated his presence.

The stingy professors at Oxenfurt were, at best, annoyed with his eccentricities, and at worst, forbidding his presence at events. His students often looked forward to his lectures, but he was still a professor, doomed to frustrate even the most academically-inclined of them. And his family? Well... they were hardly ever pleased with him.

The best Jaskier could do for himself while travelling solo was delight an audience for a night, perhaps delight a pretty face too, and then head back on the road once again, alone as ever. It wasn’t as depressing as it sounded, but the prospect of returning to such a life was, in fact, depressing.

And apparently, Geralt didn’t even want him around. He really, truly, didn’t want him there. There was no mistaking it.

Jaskier was a burden on anyone he got close to.

So maybe it was for the best. Maybe his best purpose was to be a lonely bard, entertaining lonely strangers while flitting between lonely villages.

Jaskier tried to escape from his head, tried to look up at the trees and remember how beautiful they were as he sat by the water just hours before, tried to pry himself from remembering laughing at Roach, tried to replace the happy memories with the lowest moments. But it all failed. 

The sky was growing dark and Jaskier’s mind was running around and around, betraying any sense of self-preservation in preference of remembering those horrid words and that awful, terrible, twisted, _beautiful_ face that said them.

How many times had he ignored the truth ringing out in Geralt’s voice because he was too busy staring at the witcher’s hair or shoulders or eyes? How many times had he missed the disappointment that must have crossed Geralt’s face when they ran into each other in favor of dwelling on the feeling of those strong (and probably superficial) hugs? How many times had Jaskier almost died and clung to the feeling of Geralt’s hands on his shoulders, his reassurances that he wouldn’t let Jaskier die, the speed with which he worked to find a cure, only to ignore that had he not been there, things would have been _so_ much easier for Geralt?

He decided where he stood would be as good a spot as any to set up camp, and with what little he had, he set out his bedroll and started eating the last bit of jerky he still had in his bag. He was drained. There wasn’t much more he could do than take a sip of water out of his canteen and lie down to sleep. It was going to be a cold night without a fire.

It was going to be a cold night without Geralt by his side.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who read this, i watched the subscription count rise faster than i've ever seen any of my other works, seriously, the reader engagement is top-notch! y'all are amazing.
> 
> and... this chapter was outlined to be like 3k, maybe 4k maximum. but it ended up being 6.4k so have fun with that <3 (also very roughly edited, i may be coming back in a day or two to smooth out any grammar or spelling errors)

Geralt wasn’t sure how long it had been. Without Jaskier and his ever-present humanity to ground him, the days slipped by, blending into an endless stream of monsters and women and men and ale and quiet. So much quiet.

He wasn’t sure how he did it before. He had been a solitary traveller before. For years, in fact. This should not have been any different. But it was. The roads in between villages felt longer, the people less friendly, the nights darker. Even when near a town, Geralt would choose to sleep in the woods. Finding an inn that would take him was harder than he could ever remember it being.

He tried not to think about it too much, but no matter how hard he attempted to push the thoughts to the back of his mind, he knew there was an obvious reason for it all.

Jaskier wasn’t there.

Being on the road on his own was not the same as the glaring _lack_ of a companion. Especially one so valuable and kind as Jaskier.

_Some days just played out so much worse than others. Shitty things piling up on top of one another, a cascade of unfortunate events, maybe even fucking destiny deciding to fuck around for a while. Whatever it was, Geralt was intimately familiar with the results._

_Most days were shit. More days than the average human. More days than the average witcher too. From his winters in Kaer Morhen, that much was clear._

_But the thing about today was that he wasn’t sure if it was classified as one of those shit days or not. Sitting near the top of the mountain, staring out into the blue sky and the green rolling hills below, there was something beautiful about it all. But it did not erase having just watched Borch let go of his hand and fall into the settled clouds and away. Forever._

_It was an unsettling sight. And worse still, his justification for following Yennefer up the mountain was gone._

_A red figure appeared in the corner of his eye, settling down onto the rock alongside where Geralt sat. Jaskier. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was him, the bard had a distinct smell. Pleasant, like a dewy meadow on a spring day. And flowers. Warm and welcoming and bright. Geralt took a deep breath. It might have been a shitty day but at least he had this. Things couldn’t be that bad if he could sit next to Jaskier, clear his head, breathe the thin yet fresh mountain air, and not be on edge all the time._

_It still didn’t erase Borch’s face._

_Maybe if he had held on a little tighter. Maybe if he had gripped the cliff or the chain a little harder. Maybe he could have hoisted him back. Maybe he could have saved the man’s life._

_It was a dangerous path to go down. Geralt’s face often concealed the speed at which thoughts tumbled around. There were so many times he could have saved more people. So many had died because he wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t strong enough. Wasn’t smart enough._

_Wasn’t human enough._

_“You did your best,” Jaskier said, calm and stable alongside him. His voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s nothing else you could have done.”_

_Geralt could hear Jaskier’s breathing. The wind blew around them, but his inhale and exhale were distinct amongst the airflow. It was grounding._

_That was a new thought. Jaskier. Grounding. Geralt let those two words sit heavy in his head for a while, contemplating how true they were. How connected. He absorbed Jaskier’s words. Maybe Geralt didn’t believe them, not entirely. But they were still there, coming from Jaskier. And they held some power. More than he wanted them to. Everything about Jaskier managed to worm its way into his head, taking root and starting to persuade._

_Jaskier was wrong, of course. Jaskier saw Geralt as human. And Geralt_ was not _human. Couldn’t be. Hadn’t been for a long time. But somehow, Geralt was starting to think that he was. Maybe there was still a little bit of it in him. Somewhere._

_“Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?” Jaskier said. Hesitant. Geralt could hear it in his voice. And, he would never admit it, but he could smell it pouring off of Jaskier. Concern, skepticism, maybe fear. And he hated that Jaskier felt like that. It was his least favorite smell. Jaskier afraid._

_And maybe that meant something more than Geralt cared to admit._

_“...That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.” Jaskier’s voice changed at the end of it, almost as if his lips curled, attempting not to cry. Geralt couldn’t bear to look over at him. He didn’t want to see the pain surely covering his face._

_“Hm,” he nodded. Jaskier was more than a worthy travel companion. He always had been. He sat patiently and told Geralt he was doing alright. That was more than he could say for anyone else._

_“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.” Now Geralt was sure Jaskier was about to cry. His voice got soft and high the way it did when he was holding back his emotions too much. Usually, it meant he was about to collapse into Geralt’s arms, but this didn’t feel like all those other moments. “Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?_ Life is too short. _Do what pleases you... while you can.”_

 _Geralt’s life wasn’t too short. It was too long. It never seemed to end. Witchers didn’t die of old age. They got killed in battle. He didn’t know how long he_ could _live. Maybe forever. And Jaskier was here with those meager years._

_And Geralt was terrified of when those—_

_“Composing your next song?” Geralt asked. He didn’t want to finish that thought. He couldn’t._

_“No, I’m just, uh...” Jaskier didn’t really feel there. He sat next to Geralt. Kept Geralt’s mind at ease. But the bard was floating away, head up somewhere Geralt never allowed his own to go to. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.”_

_Geralt wasn’t sure what pleased him. Maybe he needed to work that out too. But he knew one thing. He was terrified of when Jaskier’s years would be up._

* * *

Jaskier had stopped counting the days over a year ago. At some point, he had resigned himself to the fact that Geralt would not be showing up. They would not be crossing paths. And neither of them would be making any effort to seek one another out.

To be honest, it was probably for the best. A clean break (Never mind that it wasn’t clean at all, leaving deep jagged edges on Jaskier’s side of things). If he ran into Geralt again, he wasn’t sure what he would do. It was a terrifying thought. But also one he hoped for, sometimes.

The thing that got to him was travelling alone. Jaskier was used to it. He had gone longer without Geralt, a few years in the middle of their travels where their paths never managed to cross. But that was different. They had said goodbye, smiled, and Geralt rode away before Jaskier took the road towards Cintra. This time there was an ugly scar on his heart, a glaring absence of Geralt, and every time he entered a forest he knew he’d have to spend the night in, he thought of the witcher.

There was a long time where the thought of this, travelling alone _without_ Geralt, scared him too much. It hurt to think about how many years he spent with him. How that big, important part of his life was tied so closely to Geralt. So he stayed at Oxenfurt. For longer than he was used to. He was no longer an eighteen-year-old bard, setting off into the world. He was as old as many of the other professors. Older than some of them. But there always had been that call to the road. Of seeing things and singing and exploring.

So he took the gamble and left. His heart wasn’t at Oxenfurt. He thought it was out on the road, but he learned it was somewhere much more specific. Geralt had it. He always had.

_Jaskier’s hands were shaking. No. His whole body was shaking. His shoulders were drawn up and the rest of his body near frozen still. The only thing moving beyond that shake was his eyes, darting across the ground in front of him._

_Five bodies. Humans. Their bodies growing grey in the moonlight. The only bright thing was the blood that covered them, glistening ruby red. It soaked their clothes and faces. It seeped into the ground around them. He was sure there had to be a smell. Things like this smelled, right? He couldn’t smell anything. Or hear anything. His brain was just full of those dead faces staring up at him._

_He looked down at his hands again. They were bloody too. Not his blood. Theirs. Not a lot either. Just a few spots, a smattering across the back of one hand, a bit smeared across the fingertips of the other. There was more on his clothes and up his arms, but all he could feel was the blood on his hands, cold and heavy. Just like the dagger he held. Geralt had given it to him a few months before. Steel, not silver. He didn’t know what to make of that at the time. The moonlight shone on its blade, highlighting the red that coated it, just like the bodies below him._

_The body closest was definitely his kill. He was sure of that much._

_Jaskier’s kill._

_That was a new phrase. He hadn’t thought of that before. Hadn’t thought he’d ever think that._

_The other bodies though. He didn’t remember._

_Fuck._

_He didn’t remember. The whole thing was cloudy. His brain a muddy mess of fear and strength and stumbling and power and those_ faces staring back at him _._

_His hands wouldn’t stop shaking._

_The dagger tumbled out of them, spiraling in the air until it landed near his feet. It didn’t make a sound on the mossy forest floor. It felt like it should have made a sound._

_He hadn’t killed someone before. Hadn’t killed anything actually. He was twenty. A bard who went to Oxenfurt didn’t kill people. But he just killed a human. Maybe more than one. Geralt surely had some of them. Right? They weren’t all by his hand. They couldn’t have been. He wasn’t good enough for that. He’d be dead and they’d be alive._

_He heard a grunt from somewhere. It sounded far away. But Geralt’s hand was right there, holding onto Jaskier’s bicep. And then he was pulled forward, into Geralt’s chest, arms wrapping around him, enveloping him in warmth._

_He could smell Geralt. His senses were coming back. Or maybe it was just Geralt. He smelled familiar. Welcome._

_Home was the word his brain provided for him. It didn’t make any sense, but he was too scared to care. Geralt’s arms around him tightened, presumably to stop the shaking. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it helped or not. He was glad Geralt wasn’t letting go. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Geralt let go._

_He couldn’t hold back the gasp that tore through his body and erupted into sobs. Couldn’t keep the tears from pooling at his eyes, leaving damp spots on Geralt’s shirt. He let it happen._

_And to his surprise, Geralt let him too._

* * *

There wasn’t much work for a witcher anymore. Monsters were becoming increasingly scarce. Hell, some of the monsters Geralt had come across over the last decade he had tried to _save_.

At least another century of work probably would last. Maybe a bit less. With most of his brothers dead, there weren’t too many of them left. Fewer witchers, more work, he supposed. Not that he liked it, but it was the only thing keeping him from grieving too long.

But what did all of that mean for Geralt? It meant the roads in between work were longer, the forests darker, and the path lonelier.

He...

He missed Jaskier.

The bard felt like a stone at the bottom of his stomach. He could ignore it for a bit but it was there every damn night, aching. The guilt and remorse intertwined with his thoughts.

Geralt didn’t deserve Jaskier. Yes. That was it. Those words up on the mountain? No matter how much he wished he could take them back, they were final. They were made to hurt as much as possible, even if they were subconsciously designed. Jaskier deserved so much more than someone who could say something like that.

_The winter had ended a few weeks back, spring pushing new buds up through the dirt, blossoming into little gentle flowers alongside the roads. Kaer Morhen was too far into the mountains to see many except the hardy, little, red alpine wildflowers, but descending down towards the village, the flowers branched off into purples and pinks, blues and whites, oranges and yellows. And the buttercups. The buttercups. That was Geralt’s favorite part of spring. To see them dotting the fields around the towns, filling empty meadows, clustering in wooded clearings. The buttercups, sun yellow, were beautiful._

_He had somehow run into Jaskier far earlier in the year than most, not that he was complaining. The bard had grown on him, even after the disaster of Pavetta’s wedding. He hadn’t been back to Cintra since then and tried not to think about it too much._

_It was the furthest thing from his mind tonight._

_Geralt wasn’t sure how many tankards of ale he had consumed, or at what point or why he had moved onto something far stronger. There was a vague memory of Jaskier ordering three of every drink, one for him, and two for Geralt. But he’s not sure how long that lasted._

_Jaskier was a smiling mess, telling loud stories of the winter court happenings at whatever kingdom he had stayed at (Geralt doesn’t remember). The tavern was large, stone walls rising high. Candlelight danced across the wall, warm and bright, and there were enough people and plenty of alcoves to become anonymous amongst the crowd. Geralt was leaning back in his chair against the wall, tipsy, or admittedly a little bit more. Not that he was really that drunk, it would wear off soon. But he was letting go more than he had in a long time._

_It was Jaskier’s fault. Jaskier and his damn, stupid, beautiful smile._

_Maybe it was a few minutes later, maybe an hour, but Jaskier had sung a song, rousing and bawdy and terrible, and then tripped over someone’s foot and Geralt was rushing over to pick him up._

_“Maybe it’s time we head up to the rooms,” he said._

_Jaskier didn’t look at all phased from his fall. “But there’s still so much more ale to drink and songs to sing. The people need me!”_

_Geralt shook his head. “Hmm,” he grunted, leading the bard towards the door._

_If he was being honest with himself, Geralt was having a hard time seeing straight and wasn’t sure if Jaskier couldn’t walk well because he was drunk or if it was just his nature. But stumbling, they made it up the stairs and through the door to their shared room. Geralt set Jaskier down on the bed and set down his pack, which he had somehow managed to remember._

_He turned back to Jaskier, not sure what to say to the bard, not sure if he should try to get him to drink water or if he should drink some himself, not sure what to do. They were both too awake for goodnight._

_And somewhere amongst the contemplation, Jaskier’s hands were grasping for Geralt’s shirt, pulling him down, toppling over one another, and their lips connected somewhere in the middle._

Gods _, Jaskier was beautiful._

 _He wasn’t sure what happened next, his mind blurring in the feeling of_ yes, gods yes, please, Jaskier, that, fuck. _And... and why hadn’t they done_ this _before?_

 _Jaskier was perfect. He was strong and there and he held Geralt and it was so much more than anything he was used to. There was a mess of skin and lips and eyes looking into each other and those moans coming from Jaskier’s lips he was never going to be able to forget. He was sure they shouldn’t be doing this. They didn’t do this. Jaskier didn’t do_ this.

_As Jaskier collapsed on top of his chest, exhausted and finished, lips found their way to Geralt’s shoulders, neck, jawline. They ghosted over his own lips and Geralt leaned in, instinctively, and Jaskier was falling asleep, he could tell, barely able to drowsily press that last kiss to Geralt’s lips, soft and something else._

_Geralt shuffled a bit to get Jaskier on the bed instead of on top of him, wrapped an arm around the bard, and drifted off to sleep before his brain could catch up with what had happened._

_And catch up it did._

_Geralt woke up the following morning, unfortunately clear-headed, tangled up in the sheets. And with a very naked Jaskier._

_His mind flashed back to the bard the night before, trying to parse through the memories. Trying to find something that said that it was okay. But he was drawing a blank. And anyway, witchers didn’t sleep with people they liked. They just didn’t._

_They paid to fuck. They got paid to fuck. And they moved on. There wasn’t anything like this. There couldn’t be._

_With a groan he pushed aside the covers, trying not to disturb Jaskier. He slipped on some clothes and left the room to get food and some much-needed air._

_Geralt had been sitting at a table near the back window for nearly an hour, bright light dappling across the wooden surface. He had a half-eaten plate of food in front of him and was watching people come and go through lowered eyes._

_Quietly, Jaskier slipped into the seat across from him and Geralt looked up, meeting his eyes. Jaskier didn’t say a word._

_It was unusual for the bard, but Geralt thought he understood. Maybe some things were best left quiet._

* * *

It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault the road he was on passed by something that looked like the field where he and Geralt went on his first day following the witcher; the one where the sylvan knocked them out and Jaskier got to meet the _Elven king_. Thus, it wasn’t Jaskier’s fault that he broke his month-long streak of not thinking of Geralt.

And it wasn’t his fault that as he walked, his mind was right back in those shitty days at Oxenfurt following the mountain.

_Three weeks. That’s how long it took for Jaskier to realize which direction he was heading. He had tried to keep going, after finally descending the mountain. He tried. But each tavern he stopped at, he couldn’t escape how much Geralt should have been there._

_He would try to sing, and halfway through his mind would start to wander; Geralt was not sitting in the back corner, smirking into his drink over the falsehoods in his ballads, Geralt was not there to let Jaskier brush his hair out before they went to sleep, Geralt was not trying to hide his face when Jaskier started_ Toss a Coin. _Geralt was just not there._

_Ruined performance after ruined performance, three weeks of it, and Jaskier realized how he was closer to Oxenfurt than when he started, which was how he ended up back in the beloved city, letting the university know he would be there for the whole damn year._

_It’s not like he really_ wanted _to be there. He hated staying in one place for too long. But he couldn’t justify being a travelling bard who couldn’t get through a single performance._

_He was finally settled into his rooms when he allowed himself to get angry. It was easier to be sad, to long for what they had, to mourn the loss of something so beautiful. But every day he was stuck at Oxenfurt, stuck teaching classes to students who always wanted to hear what it was like travelling with the White Wolf, or how many monsters he had seen, if he had ever killed one. Every day like that, the anger settled a little deeper into his stomach._

_Geralt wasn’t there to yell at._

_So he settled for drinking in his room and repeatedly stabbing his bed frame with the dagger Geralt had given him all those years ago. And maybe he was a little brusque to the students. Wasn’t so friendly to the professors. Not that they had a good track record of being kind to him either._

_Every night he would dream of everything Geralt had said, everything that was probably a lie. Each rare compliment. Every slight smile. Every drunken word said late at night when the darkness of an inn room seemed to shroud any sense of reality. That one night when they… Geralt hadn’t ever spoken of_ that _again. It was all a lie, wasn’t it?_

_He’d go to lunch with some other professors the next day and, no matter what harsh words were said, he found himself silently thanking them. At least at Oxenfurt, he could trust people to be honest._

_Nine months passed before Jaskier sang again. He had been trying to write new songs, ones that weren’t about Geralt in some way or another. It would likely be hard to go off on the road again and not sing_ Toss a Coin _, but he’d make it work. The next school year was nearing and people were asking if he’d stay. Even if he wasn’t well-liked on an interpersonal level, Oxenfurt, as an institution, enjoyed Jaskier’s intellect. He was a valuable asset and he knew it._

_Instead, he packed up one morning and walked away, back onto the road. He wanted—no, he needed—to keep wandering. He couldn’t accept Geralt’s denial of his companionship to be the end of his love for his nomadic lifestyle._

_And maybe—somewhere in the clutter of his mind—he had recognized there had to have been a little bit of a lie in Geralt’s words. Even the witcher wouldn’t put up with someone for nearly twenty years if there wasn’t a small inkling of sentiment. And if Geralt had lied about that, then who was to say that he hadn’t lied about disliking Jaskier’s singing._

_If his passion and his drive were out on the road, he had to follow it. Geralt be damned._

* * *

Maybe a wyvern wasn’t a smart choice for a job in his condition, but it was the only contract Geralt had been offered in weeks, so he had been particularly inclined to take it. A night in a proper inn and a plate of actual food sounded like a miracle.

Never mind that he hadn’t been caring for his life the past few months. Never mind the kikimora that had cut open his guts the month before. Or the scree field he slid down, slicing his arm into pieces the week before. He’d taken on a contract a while back that was so far beyond his skill set, and even though he killed the damn thing he was left in the forest for a few days, his life slowly seeping out of him, before he mustered up the energy to take a potion that helped speed up the healing process.

He was being reckless. He knew that.

Still didn’t stop him.

The wyvern was supposedly spotted in the field Geralt was standing in. Supposedly it was smaller than most. Geralt couldn’t be sure. Aldermen were rarely honest about the creatures plaguing them and their lands.

He crouched down, listening to the wind rustling the grasses, trying to hear even the slightest sound of the monster.

There. Coming from the forest, about a half-mile away and coming closer.

The wyvern bursts out of the treetops, soaring high above Geralt, wings flapping loud and powerful, before plummeting towards him. And Geralt, at that moment, thought of Jaskier.

_He had waited to damn long at the tavern. Jaskier was either faster than he gave him credit for and made it down the mountain, skipping the village in its entirety, to get away from Geralt, or he had gotten lost on the mountain, and Geralt had somehow managed to arrive ahead of the bard._

_Either way, he didn’t try to track him. He just waited, drinking, at the tavern. It was self-pity. And he was stupidly hoping. Hoping Jaskier would walk through those doors, smiling like nothing had happened._

_Of course, that wasn’t how it all played out. Geralt was laying out his bedroll for the first time in two days. There was no use wasting time setting up a fire or trying to find a deer to eat. It was a break to quickly rest, and then he’d be back on Jaskier’s trail (or, at least, the trail he hoped was Jaskier’s). There was little room in his mind for rest._

_The panic that had struck him to leave the inn was deep. He had woken up with the realization that Jaskier wouldn’t be walking through the door. And even if he did, Geralt wouldn’t be receiving any smiles from him. He had fucked up. More than he had fucked up with Jaskier before. Even more than that one night when they... No. This was worse. So much worse. It hadn’t felt like it at the moment, but every time he replayed Jaskier’s parting words, he was struck by how_ final _they sounded. So much more like goodbye then any of their goodbyes had ever been._

_He left that morning, following a gut instinct and the distant smell of warmth and home and despair._

The wyvern’s talon, ripping across his thigh, pulled Geralt back to the fight.

He could hear Vesemir in his head, telling him off for being distracted, disappointed with his wandering mind. There was no way to please that man.

He glanced down at the wound. It was bleeding but it wasn’t that bad. Right?

The sword was hot and heavy in his hands. He wasn’t even sure how long he had zoned out for. It was a miracle he was still up and fighting.

The wyvern screeched and came barreling at him again. This time, prepared, Geralt struck the creature on its left wing. It stalled and then pulled up on its hind legs, towering over Geralt and every other thing in proximity. The open field was a shitty place to fight. Better than the woods, though, he supposed.

It crashed down again and Geralt had to roll to get out of its way.

_It wasn’t until two weeks on Jaskier’s trail that he figured it out. They were heading in a direct path to Oxenfurt. Jaskier might have already made it there, if he was as far ahead of Geralt as he expected._

_Oxenfurt was Jaskier’s home. Geralt should have remembered that. He didn’t know much about his family, but he knew the bard left home to study there, and he had friends there._

_Jaskier was heading towards his friends. People who deserved to see his smile and hear his voice. People who acted like friends, who didn’t yell at them to get the fuck out of their lives. People who cared about him. Jaskier was heading towards where he knew people would treat him better. And Geralt would not be welcome, that he was nearly sure of._

_He set up camp alone for the first time in a very long time. Took the time to light a fire, to hunt a rabbit or two and cook the meat, to take off his armour and clean it in a nearby stream. It should have been relaxing, but it was a guise. A charade. Motions Geralt could go through without thinking so his mind was clear to jump around. Thinking was probably not the right thing to be doing at that moment, he had lost all composure in the forest a week before. Gone was the clear, emotionless set of thoughts he used to be able to keep up for months on end._

_Jaskier deserved better. He deserved so much better. Better than a witcher. Better than a monster. Better than Geralt ever could be._

A squelching sound drifted across the golden field as Geralt sliced the wyvern’s head clean off.

It was a moment later, after taking a few steps away from the body, that Geralt collapsed into the grass. His thigh was bleeding more than it should have been, the red staining the ground around him. He didn’t have much on him, having forgotten (or rather, neglected) to restock on some of the basic first aid supplies he needed at the last town. It would be fine though, Geralt knew. He, rather unfortunately, would live. He would stop bleeding soon enough if he could manage to apply some pressure. And after some rest, he would be able to stand up again, and lug the beast’s head back to town. Maybe try to get some meat from the wyvern’s body too. Wyvern steaks would sell well. They usually did, at least.

That was a plan. Stop the bleeding. Stand up. Get the money. Sell the meat. Get a drink.

* * *

Over the past year and a half, Jaskier’s name had spread across the continent, once again. His performances had grown large, and finding a place to stay was never any trouble. Sure, he didn’t sing of the grand adventures of the White Wolf and his bard anymore. And sure, people asked him to sing those songs again. And sometimes he would. But mostly he sang of love and loss and the comedic stories of drunken men he had met over the years.

It was good. He had had a tough week of performing and was headed towards a banquet a week’s ride away. He didn’t want to sing, he wanted a drink and a large plate of food and a quiet room.

The town he had settled on was large, and there was a choice of establishments. He went for the one on the northern edge, closest to the road. It was a leftover habit from all the years travelling with Geralt. They never went too far into any town, more likely to receive dirty looks and be denied service there than on the outskirts. People further away from the centers of civilization might have been a little slower to pick up on the newer customs of the Continent, but they were far kinder towards witchers. They needed them more.

The barmaid asked him if he’d be playing, gesturing to the lute on his back.

He shook his head. “Not today, I’m afraid, I’m worn out from the road.”

“A shame,” she said with a smile. “We all need a little cheering up.”

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier looked down. A long time ago, he would have grinned and pulled out his lute. But he was tired and hungry and had spent the last night shivering on the side of the road, after an hour of failed attempts to light a fire. He spent the whole night thinking of how Geralt would have been able to do it, and even if he didn’t, the man was terribly warm.

They used to sleep side by side. _Gods. He missed that_.

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman said. “We get enough entertainment passing by here, there’s always another day. You look like you could use some warm food anyway.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said. He ordered a stew and a large tankard of ale and settled into the back corner of the tavern. The people around him looked sad. He could tell when tragedy had fallen across a village, the look in people's eyes, deep and cold and longing. It was a dreadfully familiar look, back when he travelled with Geralt, it was one that appeared in nearly every village he took a contract. It was the look of having lost too much to something fearsome and unconquerable.

He wished he was the first time he’d seen it since leaving Geralt, but it was more widespread a sorrow than he had expected. Just last week he had seen it on the same night Jaskier ran into another witcher, the only other one he had ever met. It was a rarity to meet one in a lifetime. Two? It felt like too harsh a coincidence.

_He had just placed his lute in its case and sauntered up to the bar, a grin across his face and the confidence of a man who knew too little about the world._

_“That was a good performance,” said a man’s voice. Jaskier looked over. Tall, brooding, deep scars crossing his face. Two swords strapped to his back._

_Jaskier felt his stomach twist. Geralt had spoken of other witchers; about his brothers, his family. It happened on a few occasions, usually only a few sentences at a time. Still, meeting one felt like Geralt was standing in front of him, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that._

_“Thank you,” Jaskier said, nodding tersely. He didn’t want to bother the man, but it seemed the witcher had other plans._

_“I don’t usually like bards, too loud and annoying,” the witcher said. “But I can see why Geralt liked you. Anyone who manages to be Geralt’s friend is a worthy man.”_

_Jaskier inhaled. He didn’t want to keep this conversation up, he wanted to leave. He hadn’t spoken of Geralt in a long time, and he had hoped to keep it that way. But his resolve to only utter the man’s name if he ever stood in front of him again crumbled._

_“I wasn’t his friend. And you’re wrong. Geralt didn’t like me,” he whispered into his drink, too quiet for anyone else to hear it. Anyone except a witcher._

_The man was quiet. Quiet for too long. Jaskier looked up and he was staring back at him._

_The witcher began to laugh, a smile creeping its way onto his face. “And I thought Geralt was the dense one.” He shook his head and handed some coins over to the barmaid. “I need to get back on the road, but it was a pleasure meeting you, Jaskier. My name’s Eskel, if you’re ever in need of it.”_

_And with those few words, he walked away, giving no time for a response or a farewell. The name sunk into Jaskier’s head, a faint echo he thought he had heard before. Was Eskel someone Geralt spoke of before? He couldn’t be sure, it had been too long and he had pushed away those memories until it was too difficult to access them._

_The door closed behind Eskel, leaving a sour taste in Jaskier’s mouth._

If there was anything that had been the source of Jaskier’s exhaustion now, it was Eskel’s unusual appearance. Something about being called Jaskier’s friend, that was what had messed him up. The nights had gone by with performances too intense and involved, and quantities of alcohol that were too much for his human body.

He wanted to sit in the corner of the tavern for one damn night and drown himself in his thoughts and a little bit of ale. It didn’t escape him how similar it was to Geralt’s behaviour the first time they met.

Jaskier was finishing up the plate of food in front of him when the tavern door creaked open. The only reason he noticed was the burst of cool air blowing in. It still wasn’t enough to make him look up. Maybe he should have looked up, but he was too intent on staring at the patterns on the wooden table to care. People came and went from taverns all the time.

It took a whole two minutes for Jaskier to realize the conversational din had fallen dangerously silent. That was enough for him to look up to see what had caused such a reaction.

Geralt.

He was standing near the entrance, giving a cursory gaze across the room. Jaskier hoped he was far enough in the back, face shrouded by the shadows, that Geralt wouldn’t see him. The candlelight flickered across Geralt’s face, and it _hurt_. Jaskier hadn’t forgotten how he looked, but his mind and let slip some of the more minute details: the furrow of his brow, the stray hairs so gently framing his face because he forgot to pull it back, the soft curve of the edges of his mouth, the exact color of his golden eyes.

It was far too much for a single night. Jaskier had dreamt of seeing Geralt again. Maybe even entertained forgiving him, if Geralt were to apologize properly. But he also awoke many mornings, shaking with fear after nightmares of seeing Geralt. He wasn’t ready. The thought of unpacking all that pain and hurt and distrust in a single moment was horrifying. Tension filled his body. There was nothing that would make this better, short of Geralt leaving the tavern right in that instant. The longer he stayed, the more likely he was to sense Jaskier or see him. And Jaskier couldn’t even flee. To do so would cross right by Geralt. He shrunk further back into the shadows.

Geralt was talking to the barmaid, probably ordering food or asking for a room. Jaskier, despite everything, couldn’t stop staring. Geralt turned around, scanning the room again, presumably looking for an open table. His eyes seemed to land on a table in another dark corner of the room, which, while probably a great place to remain hidden, was closer to Jaskier than Geralt was now and provided a considerably higher range of view of all the patrons, including Jaskier.

Jaskier watched as Geralt started walking, fear coursing through his body. Not the sort of fear he experienced when looking down a monster, nor the sort he felt when he was in any manner of precarious death-defying situations. It was the fear of being seen, being known, of the possible, mortifying experience of having to parse through all the thoughts and worries that had plagued him for the past two or so years.

Geralt had stopped, halfway through the room, seemingly having sensed something. He turned around, back to the bar, and then back around. But halfway through that turn, he stopped, eyes drifting over and falling on Jaskier’s table, and, as the bard realized, on Jaskier himself.


End file.
